


vigilio, audio, amo

by and_hera



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Dialogue, Communication, Cows, Domestic, Happy Ending, Jonathan Sims POV, M/M, Post MAG159, Pre mag160, but what else is new, if you ignore that ten seconds later the apocalypse, no less than uhh five mentions of that One Line from 159, the author uses way too much figurative language, you know the line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23401981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_hera/pseuds/and_hera
Summary: “Why?” Martin asks, once Jon’s settled, as if continuing a conversation that never began.Jon pauses. “I- I’m not sure what you mean-”“Why did you go after me?” Martin pointedly doesn’t look at him. “You had no reason to. I made my decision to work with Peter and I had to live with it.”“Because you’re my friend,” Jon says without hesitating. He exhales. “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you around. Martin,” he says, “I need you so much that it hurts.”or, Jonathan Sims learns how to love and, maybe, how to be loved in return.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 8
Kudos: 177





	vigilio, audio, amo

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so i listened to all of tma in the span of three weeks and i have been Going Thru It Fam  
> i'm so stressed for season 5 and i just Know that it's gonna be sad so i'm just getting this nice happy thing out there before thursday  
> i hope you like it! comments and kudos are appreciated <3  
> title is a play on the description of 160 (vigilio, audio, supervenio) and it means i see, i hear, i love

See, the thing about Jonathan Sims is that despite his constantly being alone, he is rarely lonely.

And, the thing about Martin Blackwood is precisely the same, but backwards.

When the Archivist was in the Lonely, he did not feel loneliness as strong as someone else would have. But he still _felt_ it, that loud quiet, that place to his left that _should_ be filled but was woefully empty.

It was dark, in the Lonely. But light enough to see, because if it is too dark, one could pretend that one was only alone.

Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, felt rather lonely while he was there. And if Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, felt rather lonely, he could not _imagine_ what someone who was _not_ Jonathan Sims, the Archivist would have felt like. Nor did he want to.

When Jon saw Martin there, saw him stumbling around, alone and lonely and Lonely, he felt something hit him like a freight train and all he could think was _oh_.

 _I really loved you, you know_ , Martin said, and there may have been an echo in the Lonely but those words bounced around in Jon’s head for much longer than they should have. _Oh_.

And, from that moment on, things blurred, a bit. The tape was recording- the goddamn tape- and Jon took Lukas’s statement, and then, for good measure, took the rest of him. 

The lights came up, as if in a theater after the actors took their bows. Jon looked around and there was Martin, eyes hollow and knees locked. Jon ran to him and Martin did not run to him in return, fog still swirling around his knees.

“Martin. He’s gone, Martin. He’s gone,” Jon said, his voice hoarse. 

“His only wish was to die alone,” Martin said, his voice as hollow as his eyes.

“Tough,” Jon snarled, but he did not want to get angry about Lukas again. “Now- listen to me, Martin.”

Finally- finally!- Martin turned his eyes to Jon’s, staring him down with that quiet, sad face. “Hello, Jon,” he said, his voice blank, blank, blank. His voice was still echoing.

“Listen,” Jon said, “I know you _think_ you want to be here, I know you think that it’s safer and, well,” he pauses, “maybe it is. But we need you. _I_ need you.” If there was a hint of desperation in his voice, he did dare to acknowledge it, did not dare to think about what it meant.

“No, you don’t,” Martin said, quietly. “Not really. Everyone’s alone, but we all survive.”

“I don’t want to just _survive_!” Jon shouted, and suddenly he felt as though he had stumbled upon a great truth, one he didn’t previously know or Know.

Martin was quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“Martin,” Jon said, gently putting a hand on his chin and directing Martin’s face to his. “Martin, look at me and tell me what you see.” He carefully kept compulsion from his voice.

Martin looked at him. “I see,” he said, and then he sucked in a shaky breath, “I see _you_ , Jon.” His voice did not echo and he exhaled an almost-laugh of relief. “I _see_ you.”

Jon smiled, something he did not think possible in a place like this. “Martin,” he said, almost on instinct, and he touched Martin’s hair.

Martin sucked in a breath, too-quickly, and he quietly placed his head onto Jon’s chest, crying, a little. “I was- I was on my own. I was all on my own,” he explained, and Jon was so, so tired.

“Not anymore,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

“How?” Martin asked, and his voice quavered.

“I know the way.”

And so, Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood, the Almost-Lonely, walked hand-in-hand out of a place where one is always alone.

_I really loved you, you know_ , says Martin again and again and again in Jon’s head, as he sits criss cross on a kitchen counter in a house that is not his. No one ever taught him manners.

Past tense. Does Martin not love him now? Now, that Jon is starting to understand this _thing_ that beats angrily in his chest? Or was he only saying it because he believed Jon was not truly there, that he was going to die?

Jon has a cup of tea in his hands. He does not remember making it himself, though he does not remember a lot from the last few hours, so that doesn’t really mean anything.

He thinks Martin made it for him, though.

They’re in a safehouse Daisy has that is far from London, far from the Institute, far from the Eye and Eli-Jonah Magnus and everything that was Jon’s home and Jon’s fear. The Not-Sasha destroyed the place, anyway, so even if it wasn’t run by a corrupt several-hundred-year-old man, they wouldn’t return.

Jon does not know what to do, now. He has spent so long not knowing what to do, so it is hardly a new sensation, though.

He sips his tea. Chamomile. It’s not as hot as Jon likes it, and he wonders how long he has been sitting here, on the kitchen counter.

He stretches his legs and slides off the counter, knees cracking. He walks through the small house quietly.

Martin is in the living room, just around the corner. The television is on, but he doesn’t look like he’s really watching it. Jon sits down next to him on the couch. Throws a blanket around Martin’s shoulders.

“Why?” Martin asks, once Jon’s settled, as if continuing a conversation that never began.

Jon pauses. “I- I’m not sure what you mean-”

“Why did you go after me?” Martin pointedly doesn’t look at him. “You had no reason to. I made my decision to work with Peter and I had to live with it.”

“Because you’re my friend,” Jon says without hesitating. He exhales. “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you around. Martin,” he says, “I need you so much that it _hurts_.”

Martin shakes his head, a mirthless smile on his face. “Then why did you never mention it before?” he asks. “Why did you never once think that maybe, just maybe, I needed someone who actually cared about me?”

Jon closes his eyes. “Because,” he says, “do you remember the Jane Prentiss attack?”

Martin huffs a not-quite laugh. “How could I not?”

“Do you remember when we were trapped in that _room_ with that _godforsaken_ tape recorder?”

Softer: “Of course.”

The tiniest bit revealing: “You remember how _scared_ I was, how worried I was that if I admitted belief in anything about the supernatural that it would _know_ and that pretending I didn’t care was safer?”

Quiet: “Yeah.”

Jon doesn’t say anything. He answered the question.

Martin looks at him, eventually. Jon’s tea is cold now, but he drinks it anyway.

And then, nicely, Martin scoots over. He offers the end of the blanket to Jon, and they share it.

It’s raining outside, and Martin’s fingers brush against Jon’s, and neither of them want to move.

Living in Scotland (because that was, apparently, where Daisy’s safehouse was; Jon hadn’t really paid attention on his way there) means they no longer live in a big, gray city.

This is good, of course, because there are fewer avatars and fewer Fears here. However, there are also a lot more cows in Scotland, a fact Jon is still coming to terms with.

He and Martin have gone for a walk, today. To take a look at their quote, neighborhood, end quote. The neighbors consist of very tall trees, a blue sky, tall grass, and, of course, cows.

They’re quiet, mostly, feet padding on the endless pavement of the one stretch of road for miles. Almost reminds Jon of the Vast, all of the empty space.

But he has Martin beside him, so he can’t bring himself to mind if some eldritch being is toying with him. Again.

“That cow there,” Jon says, “has been alive for seventeen years, ten months, and eleven days.”

Martin looks at him, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. “How long do cows usually live?”

“Eighteen to twenty years.”

“It’s nice,” Martin says, “living with the human embodiment of Wikipedia.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “I don’t _try_ to Know. I was just peacefully walking and this shit of a cow popped in my head.”

“That one?” Martin asks, gesturing at a cow across the fence, grazing on tall grass, all white except for one black spot.

Jon smiles. “No,” he says, faux offended. “Of course not. That’s a terrible cow. It’s _that_ one,” he clarifies, pointing at a brown cow with horns. “That’s a good cow.”

“How do you tell the difference?” Martin asks, his voice light.

Jon shrugs. “I guess it’s a capital K Know thing,” he says, feeling happier than he has in years, looking at fucking cows, “but I’m sure I could teach you.”

Martin smiles completely, a beautiful thing. “I’d like that,” he says.

_I really loved you, you know_?

Fuck that. 

Jon sleeps on the couch these days. There’s only one bed and he doesn’t want to make Martin uncomfortable by sleeping with him and he doesn’t want to talk about his _feelings_ \- he doesn’t even know what he would say. He doesn’t Know, either, a fact he does not like.

However, sleeping on the couch does him some good. When Jon inevitably wakes up an hour after falling asleep from some nightmare or other, scars itching and mind racing, he can quietly pace through the living room, sometimes reading a fantasy novel left haphazardly on the shelves from whoever stayed here last, sometimes turning on the television and just watching it, not comprehending a word.

Sometimes he makes tea, but it never tastes as good when he makes it himself.

Words run rampant through his head, things like _I see you, Jon_ and _He made his choice and it wasn’t you_ and _Where are your friends, Archivist_?

Jon thinks about Gertrude when he thinks about his friends. Thinks about how she has assistants, once, three of them. All of them were gone by the end.

Jon had three assistants, once. Sasha and Tim and Martin. He loved them something special, because really they were his first friends, the first people he didn’t (or couldn’t) scare off. He loved Sasha when she interrupted his recordings to correct his pronunciation and he loved Tim when lightened the mood with a nicely timed snarky remark that matched Jon’s humor and he loved Martin when he smiled and talked about poetry and was _good_ despite the bad happening around him. And then there was Basira and her sharp tongue and Daisy and her quiet bravery and Melanie and her fierce glare. And Jon- Jon didn’t want to hurt them like he hurt his three, so he distanced himself.

They hurt anyway.

All of Gertrude’s relationships were temporary, either because she lost them before things went on for too long or she was too practical to think forever about someone.

All of Jon’s relationships were cut short, save one. Melanie and Georgie don’t talk to him anymore and Daisy and Basira are probably dead, sacrificing themselves for _him_ and Tim is dead, dying pissed off and brave and Sasha is _gone_ and Jon doesn’t even _remember what she looks like-_

Jon is pacing, a bad habit of his. He remembers back when he first became the Archivist, when he would pace the creaky floorboards of his office and Martin would hear and bring him tea and he would smile and Jon wouldn’t smile back.

It is just like the supernatural, isn’t it? Jon somehow got it into his head that if he didn’t think about it, didn’t acknowledge his feelings, he would be fine.

He was not fine. He is not fine.

Martin is here, though. He is just down the hallway, sleeping in the bed, and he is not leaving. 

Jon continues to pace.

_I really loved you, you know?_

It is going to be a long night.

“Remember the coffin?” Martin asks one night.

It’s dark outside and they’re sitting on the couch again, not drinking tea tonight- Martin found the alcohol stash in the back of a cupboard. 

Jon scoffs. “How could I forget it?” he asks crudely. “I wish I could.”

“I turned the tapes on,” Martin says, softly.

“You what?” Jon asks.

“The tapes,” he says. “You had been down there for three days and the tapes always made you stronger- of course, I didn’t know then how _much_ stronger- so I turned them on above the coffin.”

Jon closes his eyes. “I remember,” he says. “I thought it was some Fear fucking with me.”

“Yeah,” Martin agrees, voice soft. “I couldn’t say anything, because Peter.”

Jon shakes his head. “Why did you ever agree to work with him? He treated you like shit, Martin-”

“And you didn’t?”

A beat.

 _I really loved you, you know?_ sings in Jon’s head.

“No,” Jon says quietly. “No, I suppose you’re right.”

Martin sighs, a drawn-out thing. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t apologize,” Jon replies. “It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t what you deserved.”

“Okay.” Martin looks at his hands. “It’s just- when you died,” he begins, “I had absolutely nothing left. I had Daisy and Basira and Melanie, I guess, but I never got on with them and I had the Institute but _Christ,_ I didn’t want it. And when Peter came along, told me I could help-”

“You did.”

“Yes. And then, when you came back, I figured I was in too deep to quit now. I might as well figure out Lukas’s plan for you, keep him away from you. I had to keep you safe.”

Slowly, gently, Jon takes Martin’s pale, soft, unblemished hand into his own dark, burned, and scarred one and brings it to his lips, kissing it once. “Thank you,” he says.

Shakily: “For what?”

Quietly: “For loving me.”

Martin sucks in a breath, turning to meet Jon’s gaze. “Jon,” he says, “you don’t have to-”

“Martin,” Jon interrupts, “can I kiss you?”

Martin blinks once, twice, and nods. Jon leans in.

Kissing Martin Blackwood is not like kissing Georgie Barker all those years ago and not like kissing Timothy Stoker under mistletoe at the Magnus Institute holiday party before he was the Archivist and it is all at once everything Jon expected and also nothing like it at all. It’s whispers of _I really loved you_ and _I see you_ and _I had to keep you safe._ For once, Jon isn’t thinking and isn’t Knowing and just Is. Just Jonathan Sims.

There is something nice about just being Jon. Being _Jon-please-tell-me-we-aren’t-keeping-these-fucking-canned-peaches_ and _Jon-did-you-take-the-tea?-I-can’t-find-it_ and _Jon-do-you-want-to-stay-with-me-tonight_ ? No long teeth snarling _Archivist_ , no Eye looking down.

So, Jon sleeps with Martin that night. 

He sleeps better than he has in weeks.

When Jon thinks about it, really considers it, he can think of the one moment when he fell in love.

Or, maybe the moment he realized. He isn’t sure.

Because one day, he was sitting in his office. He had just recorded a statement, and despite it being stale and unsatisfying, he was in no danger of going outside and sucking the story from someone. It was some story connected to the Web, one he didn’t particularly care to look into.

Jon was so, so tired. 

Someone knocked on his door. “Come in, Martin,” he said flippantly, before pausing- Martin?

Martin slowly opened the door, every creak defined. The door had been made seventeen years ago and it had not been oiled for nine. He did not care.

“Hey, Jon,” Martin had said softly, and Jon noticed the recorder had turned off. He wasn’t sure why. Usually he had to do that himself. Martin was holding a cup of tea, presumably for himself.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon replied easily, trying not to let Martin notice how confused he was. “Are you alri-”

“Fine,” he said shortly, looking to his right, at the wall of haphazard papers and statements and tapes. There were precisely twenty-two statements on those shelves, countless more in scattered boxes around- no, not countless, one thousand four hundred and seventy four. Jon did not care.

Jon waited a moment, not wanting to cut him off. Martin exhaled, slowly. “Jon,” he said, quietly, and for a moment all Jon could think was how no one had said his name like that in so long. Not accusatory or pissed off, and not a snarled _Archivist_ from the lips of some monster ready to kill him. Just Jon.

“Yes?”

Martin half-laughed, but there was no humor to it. “I was just- I have tapes for you.”

Jon blinked. “Oh?”

Martin took a bag off his shoulder Jon honestly hadn’t even noticed was there and dumped it out on his desk. “They might help.” They would help. Listening to statements wasn’t as good as reading them himself but they worked well. He did not care.

“Oh. I- thank you,” he stammered, not knowing entirely what to say. He traced his fingers along one of them, and he looked up and Martin was about to close the door, somehow the familiar creaking absent. “Wait,” Jon said, and Martin waited.

“Jon, I’m-”

“Busy, I know, I just. I miss you,” Jon said, and if it wasn’t Martin, if it wasn’t tonight, if Martin hadn’t thrown himself into the line of fire for Jon again and again and again, he might have felt self-conscious, might have had to force the words out. But they came easily. “Just- take care of yourself, okay?” Jon asked, and Martin scoffed, but with no real malice behind it.

“Yeah,” Martin said. Quickly, as if someone might stop him, he darted back into the office and put the cup of tea onto the table, and then he was gone, door swinging shut silently.

The tea was made six minutes and twenty seven seconds ago, now six minutes and twenty nine seconds ago, Jon Knew, but he felt something in his chest tighten that he didn’t recognize.

But maybe he did. It was Martin. He brought him help and tea and he was braver than Jon was.

And there, in his mind, was a fact, like the door or the tapes: you love Martin Blackwood.

Oh.

Jon’s in the room he has come to think of as his study, the one with the most books and a singular bar of cell service. 

He hears Martin coming up the stairs. “How was she?” he asks, flipping through another book. He closes it when he actually sees him.

“Oh, same as last week,” Martin says flippantly, walking to stand behind where Jon’s sitting and drape his hands over Jon’s shoulders and rest his head on Jon’s. 

“Institute still crawling with police?”

“I mean, they’ve finished all the interviews? Apparently they’re calling it a ‘terror attack.’”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Jon smirks, “and I suppose it’s appropriate, in a way.”

Martin hums in agreement. Jon takes one of his hands and laces their fingers together. 

“Does she know who they’re looking to blame?” Jon asks carefully.

Martin scrunches his nose. “They’re not really talking to her about it?” he says. “Sectioned or not, being an _ex_ -police only gets you so far.”

Jon makes a noise of agreement. “Does she know if they’ve found the old prison yet, the Panopticon, Eli-” he catches himself- “ _Magnus’s_ body?”

“I don’t know how hard they’re looking,” Martin admits, and he moves to drop his bag onto the desk. “Basira said a few of them got stuck in the tunnels for a day-” Jon snickers, wondering how much fun Helen might be having fucking with the walls- “and, well, it’s not like an old man’s body is much of a motivator.”

Jon nods. He hears something- is something buzzing in the desk?- but he ignores it.

“Still,” Martin continues, “she did manage to talk them out of burning the whole place to the ground? Oh! That reminds me.” He rifles through his bag, taking out a stack of papers and a few tapes.

“Ah, these are the statements,” Jon says, flipping carelessly through them.

“Yeah, Basira said last week she’d send some up as soon as the Archives weren’t a crime scene.”

“Yes.”

“And she wasn’t sure which ones you’ve read already, so she just sent up a bunch.”

Jon gestures to the tapes. “These are here, as well. Did- did she say anything about tapes?”

“She didn’t mention it?” Martin replies. “But- I didn’t check it until after the call.”

Jon hums. 

“Probably her attempt at a varied diet?” Martin asks, and his smile is so bright. “Eating your greens, you know?”

“Probably,” Jon agrees. “I’m sure it’ll work just fine.”

“Cool,” Martin says, and he raises an eyebrow. “Well, as _fun_ as listening to you monologue is-” Jon makes a face- “I will give you some privacy.”

“Tell me if you see any good cows,” Jon says, smiling.

Martin scoffs. “ _Obviously_ I’ll tell you if I see any good cows,” he says.

Jon laughs, fondly, and Martin waves, fondly, and he closes the door behind him.

The Archivist is still smiling when he begins to read the statement.

**Author's Note:**

> SO i totally borrowed the concept of jon and tim kissing under the mistletoe at a holidays party from theo the amazing writer so go read his fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/22528450) and it's SO GOOD!!   
> thank u for reading <3


End file.
